The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [41]
He had not come here to fight, however, nor to admire his host’s extraordinary meld. He had come because among those who practiced professions suspect and illicit, Gator’s technical knowledge was famed throughout the southeast coast. Whispr needed to engage the man’s brain, not his teeth. His host’s physical appearance was immaterial. Among melds eccentric and extreme, Whispr had encountered his share.
And there were forever rumors of the far more … outlandish.
Shaking hands was not a problem. Staring into those reptilian eyes was not a problem. The proximity to so many threatening canines was not a problem. The only problem Whispr had with the engineer concerned not his physicality but his price. Upon hearing it, he shook his head regretfully.
“I can’t pay you what I don’t have.”
“And I can’t work without being paid.” Rising on leathery, claw-tipped feet shod in industrial-strength sandals Gator nodded in the direction of the front door that had admitted the visitor. In response to its owner’s movement the white caiman that had parked itself there reluctantly ambled off to one side.
Whispr was desperate. He was also caught in a conundrum. He couldn’t sell the enigmatic thread until he knew what was on it. Without knowing what information it contained he could not set an asking price. He had already taken a risk in coming here because once Gator knew what mysteries were contained on the thread he might well try to buy it for himself at a greatly reduced price.
Of course the thread might contain nothing of value whatsoever, or even be blank. But if that was the case, why were the police so interested in him? The murder of a tourist or any out-of-towner always provoked a heightened response from the authorities, but nothing as excessive as what he had recently experienced. It suggested that the thread must be worth something. He had to find out. Given such desperation, among contacts both real and rumored, the Alligator Man would be the first choice of anyone to try to unravel the thread’s contents. But he was not the only choice. Unable to meet his host’s required fee Whispr turned to leave. Before he reached the workshop door he heard a word both desired and fraught with uncertainty.
“Wait.”
Whispr turned back. At a distance his host looked more inhuman than ever.
“All you want is the information on a single storage thread decrypted and read?”
“Or parsed.” Whispr tried not to show any emotion. “I’d settle for parsed.”
“I don’t do half-assed work.” Gator grinned, and it was a truly remarkable thing to see. “I’ll read it whole entire or naught. I’m past parsing. I have more professional pride than that.” Still chuckling he extended a leathery green-black palm in his visitor’s direction. “Let’s see this thread you say your life is hanging from.”
Whispr proceeded to remove the packet from the hidden compartment in the sole of his right shoe. He worked carefully, though the thread had shown typical resistance to damage. Based on what he knew of it thus far it was more likely to be misplaced, overlooked, or lost than broken. He handed it over.
Taking the transparent packet deftly between two claw tips, Gator brought it close to his face. The silvery filament seemed to absorb rather than reflect the light in the heavily adapted living room.
“Mighty small piece of something to have caused you so much grief. The death of your partner at the hands of the authorities, you say? May their genitals undergo explosive melding!”
“I don’t know for sure that he was murdered because of this. It might have been over something else we took, or because of the person we had to kill. Or something else. But I feel sure that it must be valuable, somehow.”
Reptile eyes met his. “And how pray tell do you know that, Whispr-man?”
His visitor did not look away. “Because there was only one of these on the dead man. When there is only one of something and a lot of trouble is taken to conceal it, value is usually an attribute.”
“Hmm. We’ll see.” Holding the packet firmly, Gator beckoned.